


compromise

by ignitesthestars



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars
Summary: Jyn thinks she might hate herself.It’s not the first time she’s had that particular thought, but it is the first time she’s levelled it at herself with such speed and certainty. Cassian’s hand rests at the small of her back, just this side of decency, as he chats with the Imperial flunky like they’ve been friends their whole life. Any trace of his accent is gone, replaced with crisp, Coruscanti edges.





	1. Chapter 1

Jyn thinks she might hate herself.

It’s not the first time she’s had that particular thought, but it is the first time she’s levelled it at herself with such speed and certainty. Cassian’s hand rests at the small of her back, just this side of decency, as he chats with the Imperial flunky like they’ve been friends their whole life. Any trace of his accent is gone, replaced with crisp, Coruscanti edges.

Jyn sucks back a flute of champagne and considers the pros and cons of setting herself on fire. She hates most things about this mission, but that - that in particular is the worst part. The things that make Cassian Andor a very good spy are things that make him completely unrecognisable.

“I have to say, Desric, the last thing I expected was for you to show back up on Coruscant with a _girl_.”

She’s pretty sure that, even with the copious amounts of makeup and hair styling torture she’d put herself through this evening, she’s still very clearly an adult oman. Cassian’s hand barely twitches as he pulls her in, grinning down at her with just the right amount of pleasure and smarm.

His eyes are a cold, deadly thing. It fits his persona as a ruthless Outer Rim merchant to a T, and makes her want to murder something.

“What can I say? Sometimes one can’t help but indulge.”

He tears his gaze away from her and winks at the flunky, who seems to hear something else in the words, judging by the way he falters. Not for long, a brief second, but Jyn’s got as much experience at watching other people as she does at pretending to be them. She tucks her teeth behind a simpering smile and smacks Cassian on the chest like she’s seen half a dozen other pieces of eye candy do that night.

Her job is to seem as harmless as she possibly can. Not for the first time, Jyn has to wonder why it is she landed this mission. Draven doesn’t seem like the sort of person to put ‘making Jyn Erso suffer’ on the list above ‘collect Imperial intelligence’, which has more to do with his boner for Imperial intelligence than it does with his fondness for her. Next time, she’s asking for a job where she gets to hit people for real.

Cassian catches her hand and brushes a kiss over the knuckles, but he’s staring at the other man, giving off a passable air of distracted interest. This is her cue to go and throw a sulk while he talks business (and gather her own intel from the party while she’s at it, but she waits for him to verbalise it. Her persona here isn’t exactly Onto It.

“Ah - sorry, dear, why don’t you go and top yourself up? I’ve got some business to attend to with my good man here.”

His good man there gives her a paternalistic smile that makes her hope she get the chance to shoot him later. She sniffs, jerking her hand out of Cassian’s grip with a little too much of her own personality judging by the way the corner of his mouth quirks up. Desric Bastra is allowed to laugh at her, of course, but grin is all Cassian.

“A bit of a spitfire, that one,” she hears him comment as she flounces away. “Not much up here, but plenty--”

She tunes out. Because she has her own work to be doing, and because there’s something particularly agonising about hearing Desic Bastra describe Vara Hyes (the latest in her long list of alias’) like a piece of meat when the memory of his hand on her back burns a little too hot.

They make their way back to their suite separately that night. Imperial women are smarter than their partners give them credit for, and Jyn Erso is a lot better at listening than Vara Hyes appears to be. She categorises the intel in her head, playing memories games as she walks through the corridors of the state they’ve been invited to. It’s nearly midnight, but Cassian doesn’t get back for a couple of hours after hers, dishevelled and stinking of alcohol.

“Vara?” he slurs as he staggers in through the door, and she rolls her eyes at him from behind the cover of his body as she pretends to take his weight on her arm and berate him for leaving her alone so long.

The door hisses shut behind them, and the stagger is gone. Cassian straightens with a grimace, tugging at the fancy scarf Desric Bastra apparently feels the need to wear.

“Took longer than expected,” he apologises. “Sorry about the stink.”

He hasn’t let the accent slip (easier to stay in character), but there’s something to the way he speaks, a warmth in his voice that says _Cassian_ instead of _asshole_ , and Jyn feels a tension in the back of her neck unwind.

“Go shower,” she instructs, throwing a towel at him. “I’m not sleeping with you when you smell like you tipped the whole bar over your head.”

Because they have to share a bed when they’re playing this ruse. Obviously.

There’s a pause where his gaze grips her for the second time that evening, and there’s nothing cold about it now. Jyn purses her lips when she really wants to swallow the sudden lump in her throat, making a shooing motion with her hand before she does something really stupid.

She can’t compromise the mission. She’s supposed to be proving herself to the Alliance, because it turns out that playing the hero and getting the plans to the Death Star is appreciated, but doesn’t do much for an organisations belief in your ability to follow orders. A large part of her resents it, but an even bigger part likes the feeling of - belonging.

Of purpose.

And she’s not going to fuck that up for herself, or this mission for Cassian. She these little moments that keep happening, the pauses and the glances and the heat of his hand on her back, she’s going to ignore all of them.

“For the rebellion,” she mutters to herself as he disappears into their en suite. At least he has the decency to take his shirt off in there.


	2. Chapter 2

“How do you do it?”

Jyn Erso is hunched cross-legged on a bed (their bed), and Cassian is in hell.

He rubs a hand across his face. It's been awhile since he needed to be clean shaven for a job, and he's still not used to the sensation. There’s a lot about this mission that’s non-standard, and there’s a corner of his mind that is a little concerned about his ability to concentrate on it.

“How do I do what?”

He’d at least had the sense not to join her on the bed, sitting on an uncomfortably fashionable chair as they swapped the evening’s intel, heads bent together, voices low. They’ve swept twice for bugs, but paranoia has kept both of them alive this long.

Jyn leans back on her hands now, carefully avoiding his gaze. She’s been doing more and more of that as the mission wears on, and Cassian’s just as careful not to focus on it.

He can't help but take in the rest of her, though. There's a water ‘fresher in the suite (a bath, actually, although neither of them have indulged), and she'd made use of it after he'd spent probably too long scrubbing Desric Bastra off his skin. Vara Hyes has been stripped from her, leaving Jyn with her damp hair gathered over one shoulder.

He hadn't realised how long it was until now.

“Pretend to be someone else,” she says, and he stops his review of her at the collarbone.

“Haven't you been doing the same for years?”

“Not really. Getting papers and a different name is easy. Liana Hallik was never all that different from - from me.”

She doesn't say her own name, and it reminds Cassian that this conversation, if he played by his own rules, should not be happening. Too dangerous, even without bugs and especially when she's wearing an old shirt as sleepwear, worn thin with use. Their real lives need to stay far away from the mission.

“I consider their motivation,” he says, because he's bad at doing anything he's supposed to around Jyn Erso. The taste of Desric Bastra is thick in the back of his throat, some part of him still unclean even after his own too-long shower. “What drives them. Everything else is details.”

“Learning a Coruscanti accent is details?”

“Learning a Coruscanti accent is a survival tactic in the Empire, whether you are in my line of work or not.”

Jyn grimaces, nodding. She rubs at her nose and the neck of her shirt slides over one shoulder, baring skin. Idly, Cassian considers if she’s practicing her torture abilities, but that’s not her style. Not on purpose, at least. He grabs his thoughts by the scruff of the neck, and corrals them back to safer pastures.

Except there’s a moment where the flicker of her gaze brushes his and forgets to dart away. Cassian has lost count of how many times this has happened between them on this mission (since Scarif, before Scarif), but he still can’t figure out if the heat crackling between them is something to bask in, or something that will burn him in the end.

That’s what Jyn does to him. Before, he would have assumed the latter.

Before, he wouldn’t have even looked.

“So what drives a man like Desric Bastra?”

“Hunger.” The word hangs in the air between them. “Desric Bastra is a man who will always want more than he has.”

“Dramatic.”

“An unfortunate side effect. What about Ms Hyes?”

Jyn snorts, but there’s a contemplative twist to her mouth. Her fingers drum on the mattress, restless.

“Fear,” she says finally. And then she’s clearing her throat, tossing herself back onto the mattress. “We should get some sleep. It’s hard work, all of this pretending.”

Sleep. In the bed they share together, because Cassian is in hell.

* * *

There is an actual mission at stake here, although Cassian hasn’t yet figured out why both of them have been sent on it. Strictly speaking, intercepting an Imperial weapons trade is not a two-person job. Not for someone like Cassian, with an alias already tailor-made for the job.

And yet, Draven had ordered it anyway. Despite Cassian’s disobedience of the man’s orders on Eadu, he trusts the man to do what's best for the Rebellion.

Just not blindly. Not anymore.

“You've gone soft, Desric.”

Jerrol Fess is an Imperial middleman whose paranoia masquerades as intelligence, and whose greed squanders even that. Any encounter they've had before has been strictly as a result of the latter, and Cassian is starting to get the impression that the former is, belatedly belatedly, starting to kick in.

“This is about the girl,” he says idly, taking a drag of the cheap cigarra Jerrol had offered him under the impression they were quality. It tastes as sour as his dismissive attitude towards Jyn, but they only get out of here alive if he maintains it.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you liked her.”

“My apologies, Jerrol. I didn’t realise we were still in the Academy. I should count my lucky stars you don’t want to know if I _like_ like her.”

He laughs at the end to save the man’s ego. It’s a delicate balance to walk, defending his association with Jyn while remaining in character _and_ avoiding offending their host. He’s definitely having a chat with Draven once they’ve got the weapons back to the Alliance.

Jerrol’s returning smile trembles with discomfort that he tries to hide around a drag of his own cigarra. “I’m merely curious. The nature of being an Imperial officer is to take note of things that seem unusual, you see. Especially in this day and age. You’ve never seemed like a man of sentiment before.”

The hungry thing in Cassian’s chest that he pulled this identity out of howls in triumph at the double meaning of _this day and age_. This day, when nothing is certain for a career Imperial anymore, this age when the Empire is crumbling. Cassian grips the emotion and carefully strips the source from it, lips peeling back from his teeth in a grin.

_So what drives a man like Desric Bastra?_

He glances across the room to the double doors that lead out onto a balcony. Through the smoke and the gauzy curtains shifting in the breeze, he can see Jyn, head bent in conversation with Jerrol’s wife. Her hair is loose for the sake of Vara Hyes, and she keeps tucking it behind her ears. It’s a tell, but Cassian’s mostly sure only he’s figured that out.

He’d dismissed the wife, but he trusts Jyn more than -

What? His own instincts?

“She fears me,” he murmurs finally, the words slick in his Coruscanti accent. It’s all he can do not to spit them out. “And yet, she’s here anyway. I didn’t force her hand. I find that intriguing.”

“Not...suspicious?”

He snorts. “Jerrol, you’ve seen her. She’s not clever enough to be suspicious.”

Imperial sexism has its uses. Jerrol returns the snort, the lie slotting easily into his picture of what’s happening here. A stupid women, it seems, is easier for him to believe than a spy, so long as his paranoia has a reason to grasp at.

“You’re a man with strange tastes, but it looks like you’re not the only one.”

“I’m sorry?”

Jerrol nods towards the women. They’ve been joined by a third figure, and all the hair on the back of Cassian’s neck stands on end. Malthazar Hart is the muscle in charge of the weapons transport, and Cassian has been trying and failing to get Jerrol to bring in on the ‘accident’ they’re planning.

The man’s greed is written into his every movement, and it’s on full display now as he leans over Jyn, his hand casually caressing her shoulder. But Jerrol’s paranoia outweighs his own greed when it comes into bringing a third person into an illicit weapon’s heist, his fear of being discovered stronger than the certainty of pulling the raid off.

Jyn shrugs the hand off, forcing a laugh that’s fake to everyone around them. Hart can’t take a hint, turns the laugh into an invitation to sit with them, and that’s when his hand disappears from sight. Cassian can put two and two together though, the angle of the man’s shoulder and the rigidity in

 _On her knee_ he thinks, as that hunger he’s leashed turns to something darker, thrashing in his gut. _If he’s lucky_. It takes everything in him to force a lazy Bastra smirk, and he lifts the cigarra to his mouth again to hide any trembling edges.

“I don’t think I’ve got anything to worry about,” he says. “Vara prefers a man with a little more subtlety.”

 _Don’t do anything stupid_ wars with _kill him_ in Cassian’s mind, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s speaking to himself, or willing the sentiment towards Jyn. Either way, it doesn’t matter much; he’s on the other side of the room, and when things start to move, they move _very_ fast.

Surprise, he thinks later, is a talent of hers.

Her back hides the precision of her movement, but that doesn’t matter too much when Malthazar Hart starts back, making visible her hand around her wrist. For a moment, it seems almost as though he’s in charge, guiding her up out of her seat--

And then a resound _crack_ echoes across the balcony and into the room Jerrol and Cassian have laid claim to, and it takes everything in him not to wince.

“See?” he says blandly, as the Jerrol stares at him, open-mouthed.

_Definitely having that talk with Draven._


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, Jyn can’t feel bad for breaking that sleaze’s wrist.

If she’d fucked up in some other way - accidentally called her partner by his real name, or mentioned the current location of the current rebel base, or distracted Cassian by ‘accidentally’ dragging his arm around her while they were sleeping - she would have felt bad about any of those. She would have raked herself over the coals for any of those. Especially the last one, which is sort of creepy.

But avoiding those things is all a part of the job she signed up for. She had not signed up to play the honeypot. One, she’s not very good at it, and two - look, Jyn considers anyone who can play that game for their cause to be more than impressive. It’s not in her, which is why Malthazar Hart has a broken wrist, and their mission is in danger.

Sort of.

Jyn has never been to a play, but she has to imagine that this is what it must be like to see master actors at work. Cassian throws back his head and _laughs,_ the sound free and unfettered in a way Jyn has never heard before. Her heart clenches in an entirely ignorable way, because this is not actually Cassian Andor. Which he proves almost immediately, slow-clapping his way towards the balcony.

What follows is a veritable deluge of toxic masculinity as he patronises her, the asshole with the broken wrist, and acts as though Jerrol Banthabreath is in on what is really all a huge joke. He all but elbows the man in the side, and Jerrol starts slowly and uncertainly into his role, a boy who has suddenly found the popular kids paying attention to him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be my head of security, Hart?” Jerrol demands. “How can I expect you to defend me if you can’t protect yourself from some girl?”

It takes everything in Jyn not to bristle at _some girl_ , and Hart isn’t anywhere near as successful. He looms over Jerrol’s wife, where he’d retreated after the wrist situation, trying manfully to keep his expression impassive and failing miserably. He can’t seem to help but snarl, and Jerrol’s wife underneath him - Sab, her name is - does her very best not to breathe and draw his attention.

 _What drives you_? Jyn remembers to be ‘afraid’ just as Hart turns that snarl on her; she lurches from her chair to stand by Cassian, whose hand slides idly and possessively to her lower back.

Dick.

“Send me the medical bill,” he tells the man, oozing magnanimity and also just oozing in general. “And stop looking at my girl like that. Isn’t that what got you into this situation in the first place?”

Jyn sidles closer, mostly so she can pinch his side irritably where no one can see. Cassian doesn’t flinch, because of course he doesn’t. Stymied in his righteous fury, Hart glares at all of them before throwing one truly poisonous look not at Cassian or Jyn or even his employer, but at Jerrol’s wife.

Sab, who fits the plain and mousy build better than Jyn at her most give-no-fucks, shifts uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair. She waits for the brute to storm off before daring to slide her gaze to Jyn.

Behind Cassian and Jerrol, she smiles at her. Sab relaxes, not quite able to return the smile, but letting her expression relax a bit. They’ve had quite the conversation, over the course of the morning.

“Such excitement,” Sab drawls. “Jerrol, dear, I think I might retire for the afternoon. We have _such_ an evening planned, after all.”

It’s a wonder to Jyn that the Empire can still find the _purpose_ , let alone money and resources for their ridiculous displays of power. Everyone knows they’re dying, no mythological being to regrow its head now the emperor is dead. Still, Jerrol doesn’t strike her as the most imaginative of men, So long as there’s someone to report to, he’ll probably keep on keeping on until someone shoves a blaster in his mouth.

She entertains fantasies of doing just that as he drones on to his wife. Cassian’s fingers tap a question into her hip, and she rests her chin on his shoulder obnoxiously in response. She’s trying not the be a distraction, but he’s not making it kriffing easy. Jyn is Jyn, at the end of the day, and if there are buttons in her reach everything in her itches to hit them.

“What are you doing?” There’s a hint of Cassian under Describ Bastra’s smarm, ad she should definitely back off before anymore of him creeps out.

“Resting,” she huffs. “Darling, it’s been a long time since a man made me hurt him like that, I don’t enjoy it. Do you mind if I retire with Sab here?”

She gives him her best lovesick puppy eyes, which re probably not very good Cassian’s mouth twitches, so close to hers, and she’s glad he picked such an easily amused alias. What she’s less sure about is whether or not that’s because she’s glad he has the cover, or just because she enjoys seeing him smile.

It really has been a long day.

“I don’t control you,” he says easily, and there’s no telling if that’s Desric or Cassian coming through now. “Just return to me before this evening’s festivities are due to commence.”

Jyn rescues the both of them from her face just as Jerrol starts to tune back into the conversation. Two steps have her next to Sab, looping her arm through the other woman’s as she stands.

“Yes, yes, by all means go and do whatever it is women do when they’re saved from the presence of men.” The man tries to mimic Cassian’s act of magnanimity and fails miserably. “And tonight, you’ll have to tell me the tale of how you learned to defend yourself so skillfully.”

Jerrol Fess isn’t quite as stupid as she wishes he might be. _What drives you?_ Jyn thinks of a girl unable to trust anyone around her. Afraid, even if she hadn’t been willing to admit it. She startles herself a little, with Vara Hyes’ willingness to be honest with herself.

“Oh, it’s hardly a story ,your eminence. A girl on Nar Shaddaa just has to be able to look after herself. I never would have made it to Desric’s side, otherwise.”

Desric, a rich and powerful man who could protect a girl with enough spark to hold his attention. Women in the Empire survive in all kinds of ways. Next to her, she picks up on the hitch in Sab’s breathing, although she doubts either of the men notice.

“Nar Shaddaa.” His eyes flicker to Cassian, and there’s _some_ kind of calculation going on there. “A dancer, then.”

Irritation flashes in her gut, even though that’s exactly what she’d wanted him to think. Her arm tightens around Sab’s before she can stop it, but the other woman doesn’t give away a thing. She gives a heavy roll of her eyes instead, chiding her husband.

“Let the girl have her past, Jerrol. Why, Malthazar himself was just telling me about how a smaller figure can use a larger man’s strength against him. He only has himself to blame if Vara had more reason to learn that lesson than him.”

The calculation abruptly drops from Jerrol’s gaze, replaced by an insipid condescension at the sound of his wife’s voice. But he’s soothed, in a way Jyn definitely couldn’t have managed, and she’s not sure Cassian could either.

Jyn might be a terrible honeypot, but she is very, very good at making friends.

* * *

“Does the Council know you spend so much of its money on fancy scarves?” As always, Jyn makes sure the door is shut behind her before she speaks.

Cassian glances at her over his shoulder from where he’s putting the finishing touches on his new outfit. It’s not hard to see how he gets away with being so many different people; she barely recognises him without the five o’clock shadow on his jaw and the ‘I was awake until five am’ shadow under his eyes.

It’s a good look on him. Actually, she finds herself glancing briefly at the ceiling to gather herself for a second, because between the sharp lines of his suit and looking like he had a full night’s rest, it’s a _really_ good look on him.

But it’s not...exactly him. And this whole situation is weird enough without tying up her unfortunate attraction to Cassian Andor with his latest alter ego.

“I bought this myself.”

“Of course you did.”

Because Cassian Andor wouldn’t want to unduly burden the Alliance with outrageous silk purchases, even if they were made on the job.

He turns to face her fully, leaning back against the dresser he’s in front of. Past his head, Jyn can see a sliver of her own face in the mirror. They’re in the middle of enemy territory, and she almost looks...at ease.

Cassian crosses his arms over his chest. “What does she know?”

Right. Business. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear and drags herself across the room to the wardrobe they’ve set up. _He_ might have been altruistic enough to buy his own fancy outfits, but Jyn had charged every dress she’d bought for this mission to the account the Alliance had set up for her. It’s not like she’s going to wear them after this.

“More than Jerrol, and more than what she dared to tell me.” She flicks through the dresses for one she hasn’t worn yet - apparently that’s important - settling on something in a deep scarlet. It seems appropriate. “Malthazar Hart is even more of a creep than the broken wrist implies, she wants off this rock, and she knows we’re here for the weapons.”

He hisses softly. “I should have been more careful--”

“It’s not us. Jerrol might be obsessive about making sure none of his underlings or overlords know about what he’s doing, but he’s a little lax when it comes to his wife.”

On any other mission with any other person, it wouldn’t have bothered Jyn to get changed in the middle of this conversation. She sits grimly on the thought that it wouldn’t bother her now either, thank you very much, because being _bothered_ isn’t the problem. Being distracted is. And she’s done enough of that today already, so she shifts past Cassian and into the en suite, shutting that door behind her as well.

If his eyes follow her, they’re both ignoring it.

“She implied something about there being more to this,” she continues, dragging the pale blue afternoon dress off over her head and tossing it on the floor. Apparently afternoon dresses are a thing. “It’s all tied up with Hart somehow. But she doesn’t trust me enough to give me everything, not yet. Sorry.”

“You have the wife of an Imperial official betraying the Empire to discuss details of an illegal operation with you after three days. _Sorry_ is not precisely the first thing the comes to mind.”

Jyn eyes the puddle of red fabric suspiciously as she pulls it off the hanger. It’s not clear, exactly, how she’s supposed to get into it, or how it’s supposed to stay on once she’s managed that. Taking a deep breath, she just shoves her head through a random gap and hopes for the best.

“Even after I broke the head of security’s wrist.”

“He was asking for it.”

The words drop into a sudden silence between them, because that’s not - it’s not a Cassian or a Desric thing to say. Or at least, not the Cassian she first met, devoted utterly to the mission and whatever it took to get it done.

Guilt tastes sour in the back of her throat. She supposes that attitude died on Eadu with her father.

“I could have ruined the whole thing.” Her voice is muffled as she tries to find the other exit to the dress. “Don’t play dumb.”

 _Success_. Her head pops through the next gap, which is less of a gap and more of a gaping chasm. The dress is backless, and once she has the fabric settled around her hips, it’s surprisingly easy to get the high neck in place, put her arms through the long, tight sleeves. Like the rest of her dresses, there’s a slit in the skirt. She’s not risking tripping up on herself if they suddenly need to run.

Cassian still hasn’t said anything, so she doesn’t bother double checking the fabric when she slams the door open with a little more force than required, jabbing a finger at him. He’s - he’s much closer than she’d expected, more than halfway across the room towards her from the dresser.

His steps stutter when he sees her, and she can’t suppress a flush. Her index finger, she knows, is not that intimidating.

“I don’t need you making excuses for me,” she manages finally.

His lips part. He keeps his eyes on her face with the intensity of a man who is doing everything in his power not to look anywhere else, and he hasn’t even seen the back of the dress yet. It occurs to Jyn, somehow, finally, that she might not be the only one causing problems here. Or having them.

“He was asking for it,” Cassian repeats, and his voice is a little rougher, the fake accent missing its crispness. “Your dress is - the fabric is twisted.”

Of course it is. Jyn squeezes her eyes shut for a second, turning her face up to the ceiling again as though the stars or the Force or maybe an upstairs bathtub crashing through the roof can get her out of this situation right now. But she doesn’t have that kind of luck, so it’s back into the en suite with the door slamming shut behind her - harder again this time. The drama nearly covers the soft way he clears his throat at the sight of her back and all that naked skin.

Her own eyes are overly bright as she braces her hands on the sink, green and glittering back at her over the high colour in her cheeks. “You did not think this through,” she accuses her reflection, readjusting the fabric at her hips until it sits where it’s supposed to, the slit on the _outside_ of her thigh now. Somewhere in the galaxy, Mon Mothma is laughing at her.

“I think--” Her voice cracks. “I think I can get her to fill in the blanks here. If I tell her the truth. If we can help her.”

 _The truth_. It’s a dangerous prospect, and she stays in the en suite while Cassian mulls it over, assuming that’s what he’s doing.

“This isn’t a rescue mission.”

“None of them are.”

And yet, all they seem to do in their time together is rescue people.

Rescue each other.

Jyn starts to fiddle with her hair, because it turns out there is afternoon hair and evening hair as well. Evening hair means an up-do, which means enough concentration that she nearly misses the sound of Cassian’s voice through the door.

“You didn’t make the call on your own.”

A stubborn lock of hair slips out of her grasp. Jyn sighs and calls it good enough, shoving half a dozen pins into her Fancy Bun to keep it in place before staring at the door. It stares back at her - larger than when she went through it? Probably not, but it intimidates her anyway. Or maybe that’s what’s waiting for her on the other side.

But Jyn Erso is no coward (not anymore). If fear is driving Vara Hyes, it’s not driving her, so she shoves the door open again, leaning against the frame. Cassian is waiting for her, hands at his side, somehow at ease in a way he hadn’t been before she’d re-entered the en suite. Like he knows what she’s about to say.

“I wanted to run it by you first.” She holds her hands out, lets them flop back to her sides. “All right? I’m capable of acting with _some_ forethought, you know.”

“I know.” And then his forefinger is twirling in the air, indicating she should turn around. “Thank you, then. But if you - if it is your judgement that bringing Sab Fess on board is a good idea, then I trust you. Do what is needed.”

Jyn eyes the finger with the same suspicion she’d given the door, but moves with a little more speed this time. A half-turn, giving him her back, and there’s all kinds of metaphors floating in the air right now that Jyn definitely doesn’t want to fish out. Her breath slows, and then stops entirely as gentle fingers pull the pins out of her hair, starting the up-do process anew.

It takes everything in her not to shiver.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a perfectionist?” she mutters. The door to the en suite is still open. She can see the both of them silhouetted against the spill of light from the bathroom. He’s not looking at his fingers while he works.

“You, at least, never let me forget it.”


End file.
